"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. "But, where's the strange gentleman I saw under the table?" "Under the table!" echoed Blueskin, winking at Jack. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. If by any chance I have made a mistake a word will bring me to you.
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